


Juno Steel and the Damaged Boy

by atlas_is_bad_news



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Emotions, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Juno being a bit of a dick, M/M, Other, Rough Sex, Trans Character, Trans sadness, after sex - Freeform, slight gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 05:18:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14513385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlas_is_bad_news/pseuds/atlas_is_bad_news
Summary: A short fic about Juno's thoughts after sleeping with Cecil.





	Juno Steel and the Damaged Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first Penumbra fic, I tried to replicate the writing style of Juno's character but idk if it really worked out! Anyways, hope you enjoy!   
> -Atlas

Cecil Kanagawa. The well known brat of the Kanagawa family and empire. I had made too many mistakes with this boy, I rescued him when I really should have left him for dead, I lost his arm, which his late father never forgave me for, and now, I let him talk me back into a death trap. I remember the look on his father’s face when I came back with....most...of his son, distraught for the limbs that seemed to be missing from his beloved child, and pure unfaltering rage for yours truly. At least I bothered to save him, not like he ever paid me that favour. 

The names Juno Steele. Private Eye. Hungover, currently. Professional mistake maker.   
Cecil was far from gentle in all aspects of his life. He sure as hell wasn’t gentle on the eyes. He had brown dreadlocks that hung low below his shoulders, interrupted only by a gleaming white streak of bleached hair that ran from the front of his hairline to the top of his skull, then smoothed backwards so it looked like some kind of punk style. He had braided ropes and chains and expensive jewels into the dreads and seemed to have them knotted different ways every time they met. Cecil had piercings on his ears in every blank space he could find, the kind of hoops and studs that make you think ‘How on earth do they do That?’ But then you remember that Cecil has a whole team of people around him that do what he says, he was probably put under to have some of those hooked onto his flesh. And the make up was excessive too, eyeliner so sharp it was suspicious, eyebrows carved out on his forehead like they were printed on, and bold lipstick that was only upstaged by sparkly white teeth. The clothes he wore were flashy, long swooping coats that trailed behind him, tight pants and thick, expensive, hand made sweaters, layered of course. Cecil hated his body, that was no secret, no amount of plastic surgery could change the way he felt about himself. One day he stopped trying to fix himself. There comes a point in every adults lives where they stop trying to sort their existence out and they just live in the muck. For me it was when my brother died. For Cecil it was when I told him he'd lost his arm. I had lost his arm. ‘lost’ is a funny word for it, when I say ‘lost’ I mean I watched some bastard saw it off of him while yelling “Transfer the money!” at me. As if I knew how to do that. As if I could even figure that out how to do that when Cecil was screaming that loud. The look in his eyes when I told him he’d have to learn to tie his laces a different way now was the only time I had seen Cecil Kanagawa look gentle. His features seemed to soften, I swear I almost saw him smile. It was realisation, I believe, that he was too broken now to fix, so there was no point in trying. Relief that he could now stop with the surgeries and the pills and the adjustments, because there's no fixing the ugliness of a sawed off, bloody arm; veins hanging down, lumps of muscle and chunks of fat exposed around white hard bone. No matter how much money he had, he was fucked up for good this time. 

They got him a new one of course, metal and state of the art robotics that responded to his nerve impulses or something. Probably cost more money than I’ve ever seen. He loved it, Cecil loved anything silver and shiny, like a magpie but with more murder and drugs. It was difficult not to smile when I first met his new arm. Not because of how advanced it was but just because Cecil was so taken by it. 

“Junebug~” That damned pet name. “Junebug look!! It transmits straight to the satellites, I can stream my audio and visuals from anywhere!!!” Cecil sang, waving the arm in my face.

“See!!! This finger has a knife build in, I wanted a sword but Daddy said it was too big, it’ll be in the next model though!” Did I mention that Cecil was a spoiled brat? His father pawed over him enough to spark rumours, and not the good kind. 

“Junebug~ you could shoot me with that silly gun of yours and it wouldn’t make a difference! This metal is resistant to it so it would bounce right off!” 

Oh he was giving me reason to shoot him alright. Cecil’s voice was another thing they couldn’t change. They can make it higher but it was impossible to make it lower like he wanted, so it was always at this whiney sing-songy tone that makes my ears curl. It was the kind of voice he had to force out, for a performance. His whole life was a flamboyant performance. When relaxed and, more importantly, mostly alone, his voice better matched that of his twin, Cassandra. Level almost and with a slight husk, and much less annoying to hear all day. I wonder some days if he’s able to turn off the performance, or if it’s easier to just keep laying in the muck. 

Cecil’s new arm was kitted out with gadgets and solutions to all his problems. Most of what he considered as solutions consisted of weaponry, he was a classic Kanagawa. If you can’t fix it? Kill it for fun. Currently, Cecil’s prosthetic nightmare is on my bedroom floor. Cecil is in my bed, and I’m trying to decide how drunk I am. 

Yes, by the way, I did fuck him. Good too, at least I think so. I like my men dangerous, rough and strong, big broad men who are able to help me forget my troubles. I like it to hurt. Cecil wasn’t my usual type, he’s little, not quite skinny but, curvy slightly. Put it this way, I had to ask him his age just to double check. He claims he’s 25 but he could pass for 19 easily, he gets more like his sister the older he gets but don’t tell him that. I normally go for men older than me or at least close to my age. Cecil isn’t even close. I guess I got drunk enough to think it was a good idea to let him coax me into bed. He is a Kanagawa after all, I’m pretty sure they sit their kids down and teach them to flirt. He’s good in bed, probably had a lot of practice, once I figured his body out it was easier. But now he’s laying naked in my bed in the foetal position, out cold from exhaustion. His dreads splayed out onto the bed sheet below him, unknotted and free to roam, the white fluff on top is partially flopped over his eyes while the rest is messily everywhere. His make up is smeared on my pillows and clothes and hands like he’s marked me. Am I Kanagawa property now? I’m surprised he didn’t charge me.   
Cecil’s body is more visible now that it’s not avidly, and loudly, bouncing itself on my cock. I can see the curves and the rises of his body shape, a defined feminine figure for such a broken boy. His shoulders are broad and strong though, I guess they’d have to be if they were carrying around that death trap of an arm all day. He seems more peaceful asleep, more delicate. 

I couldn’t protect him the night he lost his arm. I couldn’t protect him the day his father died, or when his mother went to prison. I couldn’t even protect him in my own bed while my body was rammed into his. Every time I see that arm I am reminded of the things I didn’t do for him. For a kid who has been through so much self hate, so many changes, and so much pressure to be perfect for the cameras and for himself, he gave up awful quick. I keep trying to tell myself he didn’t really want to get there, he didn’t want to fulfil his own standard of perfection, maybe he was happier this way. But my eyes met his legs when he undressed earlier, and again now. Lines and slashes partially healed down his thigh on the legs I left him, and smaller versions on the wrist I left him, and across the ribs under his arm that hide the heart I left him. All made with the hand I let them take. I realised why there’s a knife in one of the new fingers now. I’m stubborn, I tell people he’s lucky to have his life, that I did the best I could, that he got himself into that mess, but it doesn’t hide the feeling that I could have done better, that I wasn’t good enough, that I had to watch them cut it off slowly while he begged. And looking again at the marks now, I know he's still not happy, and he still hates his body no matter how irresistible it is to me. Sliced like a piece of meat, performing like a show monkey. Cecil Kanagawa, my view for tonight while I drink it all away. At least I can protect him here while he sleeps.


End file.
